


Worse Than His Bite

by madrabbitgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Five Plus One, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock fic, Johnlock- Freeform, M/M, Non canon compliant, Protective John Watson, Werewolf AU, Werewolf John, creature!John, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: He didn’t have time to think before instinct took over. All that mattered was he saw Sherlock go down. He heard the crack of a skull on the cement pavement and he saw red. The thug that hit his friend found himself thrown against a wall. He bounced off, hit the ground and John had him back up, pressed against the brick, snarling. He knew his eyes were glowing.“You dared,” John managed, but his voice was already ripping apart and knitting itself back together as the change began. His teeth ached to bite.“John!” Sherlock groaned. “Drop him!”A.K.A - Five times Sherlock knew John's secret and one time he didn't.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 226





	Worse Than His Bite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadMags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMags/gifts).



> * Half beta'd by MadMags, who also suggested the prompt. 
> 
> * We're both American so if I got something wrong, whoops. 
> 
> * I needed a fluff, so here's John as a wolf.

“Someone’s hurt,” John murmured to himself, forgetting for a moment where he was and who he was with. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip, tasting the blood in the air. He inhaled, filling his lungs with it’s familiar scent, allowing his eyes to close for a moment before opening them again to meet Sherlock’s curious gaze. 

“Why do you think that?” Lestrade asked. His boots snapped twigs as he walked, the loud crunching amplified in the quiet woods. Snapping twigs took on the tone of breaking bones and it set John’s teeth on edge. 

“I don’t know, just a feeling,” John lied quickly, and inwardly winced at how rubbish that sounded. He kicked himself a little. He was trained to not speak out loud when his abilities fed him extra information that other people missed, but when he could practically taste blood in the air he couldn’t seem to help himself. He blushed and glanced away from Sherlock’s piercing eyes. 

“Which direction?” Sherlock asked, catching John’s sleeve to hold him still while allowing Lestrade and his team to continue their search without them. John frowned.

“I- I don’t know. Like I said, it’s just a feeling,” John repeated, unwilling to take this particular opportunity to be completely honest with Sherlock. That they’d gotten this far in their friendship without John admitting what he- what existed within him, well, it was a miracle to say the least. Especially with the lack of privacy he had living with Sherlock. 

“I assume you saw the disturbance in the trail. I noticed some blood on the bark back there. The disturbance there at the roots would mean she was taken in that direction,” Sherlock murmured, gesturing to a tree behind them. John didn’t see any ‘disturbance’ or markings of any kind, but he found himself nodding along to protect himself. 

“Right. I thought I saw something this way,” John replied, taking the lead and following his keen nose. The scent of blood, metallic and sweet, was growing stronger as they left Lestrade behind. Shadows lurked in the forest, animals lingering there, haunting their search.

The scent was at its strongest when they stumbled over the girl and John almost choked on it. She was laying on her side in a shallow hole that had been meant to be her grave. She’d struggled against the ropes that held her, causing injury and friction. Sherlock slipped a small pocket knife out of the depths of his coat, waiting for John to lift her up so he could reach behind her and start sawing at her bonds. John worked at the filthy handkerchief tied around her mouth. 

“He could’ve been more creative,” Sherlock griped lowly. “This entire thing is so cliche.” 

“Sherlock!” John snapped, and he regretted it when his tone caused the girl to flinch away from him. “I’m sorry, shh, I’m so sorry. We’ve got you, you’re safe now.” She still whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes. With the handkerchief away from her nose, she could smell him now and he knew she’d find the kindred element in their scent. Once the ropes had fallen away, she let herself fall into John’s arms, clinging to him and crying. Sherlock looked offended but it wasn’t like John could explain. 

With a gentle grunt, he picked her up in a bridal carry. “We should get her out of here, don’t you think?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He grimaced and John couldn’t understand why. “Must you hold her so closely?” 

“Yes, idiot, I must,” John replied. “She’s injured. Come on, we’ll get her back to the team and let them handle it from there. She’ll need medical attention.” 

“Good thing we’ve got a doctor with us, then,” Sherlock said, falling back and once more letting John lead them to safety.

***

John picked up the photograph from where it fell, holding the dusty tome Sherlock had requested in his other hand. He grinned as he realized what he was holding. A chubby, cherubic child with dark curls gazed back at him, grinning impishly while holding onto a monstrously large dog.

“Sherlock?” he said, turning to smile at the man in question.

“What is it? Oh, that’s Aunt Vivienne’s dog. A great pyrenees, I think, called Maverick,” Sherlock told him, taking the photo and tucking it into a different book before sliding it back on the shelf. “Mycroft hated it.” 

“Why? It looks sweet,” John said, unable to stop grinning at the idea of Sherlock as a kid. 

“It was a very good natured dog. I was fond of it. It used Mycroft’s shoes as a toilet,” Sherlock said, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Mycroft doesn’t believe in having pets, but if he did he admits he has a fondness for cats.” 

“Ew,” John shuddered, making Sherlock snicker quietly. He wished he’d held onto the photograph a little longer. He wanted to remember the expression on tiny Sherlock’s face. It held a purely joyful, unguarded air and it made John wonder what had happened to that tiny kid to make him into the controlled man that he lived with. 

Then John remembered the book he was actually holding in his hand. The green leather was soft and musty, the way books ought to be. He frowned. “Should I be worried, giving this to you?” 

“I’m just looking up a recipe for something,” Sherlock replied. “It’s a theory. I won’t be putting it into practice.”

“I don’t know if I trust you,” John said, eyeing the antique guide to poisons as he passed it off to his friend. 

“You really shouldn’t,” Sherlock agreed, already distracted by whatever he was reading. But not too distracted, it seemed, because he reached out and gave John’s shoulder a grateful scratching rub before squeezing it and walking away.

Almost like he was petting him. 

John sighed, used to the odd gestures of affection Sherlock sometimes adopted. He probably thought it was normal human behavior to randomly stroke each other. They’d probably have to have a discussion about it later before he tried it out on someone less tolerant than John. Like Lestrade.

***

Sherlock was brilliant.

Downside, he was also holding a bright green tennis ball, fresh from a pack it seemed, and he was tossing it from one slender hand to the other. Back and forth. 

It was annoying.

But John couldn’t stop watching him, tracking the movement of the ball with his clear blue eyes. Back and forth. 

“Don’t you think, John?” Sherlock asked. His lips were quirked up in a smug smile but his tone had John snapping back to attention. Well, mostly. 

“Um, sorry, what?” John asked, wetting his lips. 

“Why John, whatever could have you distracted?” Sherlock asked, clearly amused with some secret joke. “The asphyxiation with a tennis ball wasn’t the real cause of death. You were just saying.” 

John’s eyes flicked away from the ball to Lestrade, who was watching them like they were his favorite television show. Grey eyebrows were raised, waiting and expectant. 

“Was I?” John asked, glancing back at Sherlock. Stupidly smug, smirking Sherlock. 

Who was now holding the ball aloft between his thumb and middle finger. “It took a considerable force to shove something this size into her mouth, but it was slightly easier as she was already deceased. The poison was on the tennis racket.” 

John was fixated on the ball. “Erm, yes. I agree. The, um, wound on her hand would have been consistent with the toxin that you said-” 

Thank you, John, that’ll be enough. Really, Lestrade,” he said dismissively as he tossed the ball to Lestrade without ever looking away from John. John’s muscles tensed to stop himself from literally leaping after it. Sherlock snickered. “Contact us when you have something more interesting, please. Come, John.” 

John obeyed, following behind him after saying good-bye to Lestrade. He couldn’t understand the expression on Sherlock’s face, but it had taken on more of a pensive air than the mirthful one he’d had just a few moments ago. “Something you want to get off your chest?” 

“No. Nothing at all, John,” Sherlock replied with a secret, mischievous grin.

***

Usually, John prepared better than this, but with their recent caseload and the blog picking up, he’d fallen a little behind on his calendar. The moon was due to rise any moment. He liked to be far from Baker Street during the full moon, but Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be there anyway. He was out of town on a very important case, so John felt safe with the triple locks on his door that wouldn’t have kept Sherlock out even if he had been home.

It was the ‘supposed to be’ that was part of the current issue. 

“John?” Sherlock called from downstairs as he entered the darkened flat. He couldn’t imagine what Sherlock was thinking as he saw the wreck that was their sitting room. The papers and books strewn on the floor from where his muscle spasms had sent them when his body had taken him by surprise with an early start to the festivities. Shattered glasses of water, cushions and his clothes shed in a hurry as he’d bolted up to his bedroom to lock himself in.

Actually, Sherlock probably was thinking John was either kidnapped by some kinky criminal that needed him naked or he was getting laid. Both of which were preferable to what was actually happening. 

“What are you doing home?” John groaned, gripping his abdomen as powerful cramps swept through. His muscles were losing control leaving his body taught and stinging. “Thought- I thought the case-” 

“Oh, barely a five,” Sherlock said from too close. It seemed as though he was right outside of John’s door. “Are you alright? You sound ill.” 

John cried out, his stomach heaving dryly. His groans turned into a growling, grunting symphony as his human stomach twisted into something else. “Not feeling great. Stomach bug going ‘round. No- No big deal.” 

The doorknob twisted, and even though it was locked, John couldn’t stop himself from shouting, “No! D-Don’t!” 

Sharpened fingernails scraped at the wooden floor. Even a landlady as kind as Mrs. Hudson wasn’t going to give them their security deposit back with damage like that. John tried once more to speak through changing vocal cords and a rush of animal hormones. “It’ - I’ll be fine.” 

Sherlock paused, almost for too long as John writhed, attempting to hold onto a shred of humanity long enough to get rid of the nosy git outside. “If you need anything, I could-” 

“No!” John shouted again. “No, Sherlock. I’ll be fine. Just- I just need to sleep.” 

There was another long pause, during which John’s fragile grip on humanity faded almost entirely away. Just as he was about to forget himself, he heard Sherlock reply.

“Alright, John. Sleep well.”

***

The next morning, the scent of eggs wafted up the stairs. Eggs, bacon, beans- it seemed as though someone was in their kitchen cooking up a full English. John wondered if they’d share with him because he was absolutely ravenous.

Of course, he was pretty sure he’d told Sherlock he had a stomach virus so it was probably going to blow his cover if he just sat down to a filling breakfast. 

John stretched and finally allowed his eyes to crack open. His door was shredded from the inside, but not enough to tunnel out, just enough to exercise his claws. His mattress had been drug onto the floor from his bed and his blankets were twisted around his naked body. One of his pillows hadn’t survived and fluff was scattered all around him. He sat up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, first one side and then the other. He pushed his chest out until he felt something in his lower back release. 

Everything ached.

And was sensitive, apparently. As he tugged on his usually soft robe, the fabric that usually comforted him chafed at his skin. Bare feet padded down the stairs drunkenly, and he was about to just pass by the sitting room and kitchen entirely and go straight for the bath as he couldn’t bear the walk of shame in front of his flatmate, but movement out of the corner of his eye had him stopping in his tracks. 

Sherlock was cooking. 

John rubbed at dry, bleary eyes and blinked a few times. 

“Morning, John,” Sherlock said, glancing over at him. He motioned at the table. “Have a seat.”

“Um, give me just, um. Be right back,” John said, continuing his trek to the toilet. After he’d relieved himself and splashed some water on his face to chase away the lingering moon hangover, he went back into the kitchen to see what Sherlock was up to. “You’re cooking?” 

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock hummed, placing a plate of food on the table next to John’s favorite mug. It was strange to see an actual meal there instead of whatever body part Sherlock felt like decaying that week. Actually, the place seemed cleaner than usual, and a quick look into the living room showed that the cushions had been righted and papers stacked back on the desk in neat order. “Don’t get used to it. I don’t do it often.” 

John’s stomach let out an embarrassingly loud growl as he took his seat. “You cleaned?” 

“No. I promised Mrs. Hudson I would teach her how to use YouTube to find knitting videos if she did,” Sherlock replied, sitting across from John with his own mug of tea and two slices of toast. John started to object but Sherlock cut him off. “No, no, don’t start. I’m not hungry.” 

“I should probably only have toast as well,” John replied, barely remembering the excuse he’d given in time. Sherlock shook his head. 

“Just try to eat what you can. Your stomach is empty and you may need more calories to fight off an illness. Or, that’s what you tell me every time you attempt to force me to-” 

“You can’t exist on toast alone,” John interrupted, thankful that Sherlock’s abnormal food logic worked in his favor in this instance. He was starving, so he tucked in, savoring the thoughtful meal. “This is amazing.” 

“It’s eggs and beans, John, hardly gourmet cuisine,” Sherlock chided but he hid a pleased smile behind his mug. His eyes watched John as he ate, taking in every stiff movement, every appreciative noise. “Do you need help tidying your room?” 

John choked on a mouthful of beans. “What?” 

“I’m assuming your room is in a similar state to our sitting room. You won’t be sane again until everything is back in rigid order,” Sherlock said. He smirked. “Hospital corners and all.” 

John felt a blush rise to his cheeks. The man had a point, but he didn’t feel like thinking about that now. “Maybe later. I’ll probably need a shower first. I feel disgusting.” 

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Tired. But never disgusting.” 

Shame bloomed in John’s stomach as he thought of his other nature, the side of him Sherlock could never know about. “I don’t know about that. But thanks.” He motioned with his fork. “For this, too. I was really hungry.” 

“I know,” Sherlock said, sipping at his coffee.

***

He didn’t have time to think before instinct took over. All that mattered was he saw Sherlock go down. He heard the crack of a skull on the cement pavement and he saw red. The thug that hit his friend found himself thrown against a wall. He bounced off, hit the ground and John had him back up, pressed against the brick, snarling.

“What the fuck!” the man was screaming. Or, would have been, except John’s hand on his throat was causing less volume and more of a gurgling sound. 

He knew his eyes were glowing. 

“You dared,” John managed, but his voice was already ripping apart and knitting itself back together as the change began. His teeth ached to bite. 

“John!” Sherlock groaned. “Drop him!” 

Shocked, the army doctor did exactly as Sherlock said. He turned to look at the detective, who was sitting up and holding the back of his skull. Bile rose in his throat as he attempted to calm down, forcing his body to comply. The man started to scamper away but police lights glinted in the dark at the alleys end, and police were arriving on scene. It was lucky timing that Sherlock had sat up or Greg and his team might have gotten to see a very unusual sight indeed- John tearing someone’s throat out with his own teeth.

Statements were given, arrests were made and Lestrade threatened yet again to take them off cases permanently if they were going to continue to chase after suspects on their own, which they knew was a lie. Soon they were back in Baker Street, shrugging out of their jackets, high on adrenaline but also something else, something John could taste in the air but didn’t have a word for. 

“Are you feeling alright? Let me take a look at your head,” John instructed, guiding Sherlock to the sofa. “Any nausea? Are you feeling dizzy?” 

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock assured him, but he didn’t jerk away. He bent his dark head forward so John could part his damp hair and feel the wound. He winced. “It’s alright-”

“Alright? You’re bleeding, that’s hardly alright,” John told him, quiet but firm. Sherlock’s large hand came up to grip John’s wrist, moving him away so he could look up with fierce, pale eyes. He continued to hold John firmly, making sure the doctor wasn’t going anywhere. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock murmured. 

John’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “It’s not. I would have killed him. You don’t know-” 

“I know, John. It’s all fine,” Sherlock assured him. He maneuvered the shorter man until he was sitting on the coffee table, their knees touching, with Sherlock still holding John’s wrist. “All of it.” 

John’s breath left him in a woosh, and he blinked a few times, wondering if he should deny it. He wavered between ‘how could you know’ and ‘of course you know’ with the ‘of course’ winning out over the other one. “Nosy git.” 

Sherlock grinned at him, eyes going soft and fond. “I warned you of all my bad habits before we moved in together. I do wish you’d given me some notice I was going to be living with a werewolf.” 

“It’s bizarre to even hear you utter that word,” John said. He gulped, shaking his head slightly. “How do you even know what that is? Wait, how do you even believe in something like that? Doesn’t it defy all of your logic and rules?” 

Sherlock snorted and released his grip on John, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned minutely closer. “When one eliminates the impossible-”

“Of-fucking-course,” John said, rolling his eyes. He grimaced. “And I suppose that means you know about the all consuming love I’ve been harboring for you since day one, too? Am I to have no privacy?” 

He’d meant it as a joke, even though 1. it wasn’t and 2. Sherlock had already gone on that ‘married to his work’ lecture during their first stake-out at Angelo’s, but the way Sherlock’s lips parted and his pale eyes were suddenly blown wide open had him falling silent. 

John gulped. “Okay, guess not.” 

Sherlock’s hands found their way back around John’s wrists, once more anchoring him in place. Rough thumbs scared with acid spills stroked over John’s pulse points. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was staring intently into John’s eyes, almost as if he could pick the thoughts straight out of John’s brain. 

“Sherlock?” John whispered, his voice cracking. “Sherlock, say something.” 

But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against John’s, letting his arms slide from John’s wrists to around John’s waist, pulling him awkwardly forward. Their first kiss was rough and a little dry, but once they switched to a more comfortable position it was the most beautiful thing in the world. More beautiful than the moon in a clear sky full of stars. 

“So, it’s all fine?” John asked later, when they were both breathless and flushed. Sherlock brushed his hand over John’s head, petting him gently. 

“It’s fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on [My Blog](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


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